


Plus One

by linndechir



Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sibling Incest, Undercover as a Couple, mentions of past underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Owen had learnt to ask for Deckard's help when he needed it, but Deckard would probably never learn not to go along with his brother's harebrained schemes. Like pretending to be married to him so they could con their way into some ridiculous high-society gala and steal some files from their host.





	Plus One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> I had a bit of a laugh with the names of their undercover identities, but I couldn't resist. I hope you enjoy this fic. :)

“I have good news and bad news.”

Owen had waited until he'd locked the door of the suite before he spoke, his movements precise and efficient even though his expression immediately turned smug. He clearly expected his brother to tell him which one he wanted to hear first.

Deckard scoffed, made an impatient gesture, and went back to polishing his shoes. Owen sighed, but he dropped the smirk and merely threw an envelope onto the table. The paper was a very tasteful off-white. Deckard rather liked it.

“My contact managed to get me an invitation to the gala. Unfortunately, he could only get me one.” Owen sprawled out on the armchair next to Deckard's, legs stretched out. It was an odd habit he'd always had around Deckard – Owen tended to be tightly coiled and perfectly in control whenever he was in anyone else's presence, but he rarely bothered when they were alone. Sometimes Deckard wondered if this too was calculated – a pointed gesture of trust because he thought Deckard might like it. Deckard wouldn't put it past his snake of a brother, but maybe he gave him too much credit.

Deckard gave an unconcerned shrug, then held up his shoe to check that it gleamed to his satisfaction.

“I'll make my own way in then. It's a large compound and there will be hundreds of guests. It won't be a problem,” he said.

“I know you _could_ do that, but there's a much easier way, one that'll also mean we won't have to sneak around each other if we need to talk.” Owen had gone back to looking terribly pleased with himself, a look that rarely boded well for anyone who wasn't him. Of course it was in both their interests to get this job done as quietly and quickly as possible, but the gleam of excitement in Owen's eyes was something more than that.

“Why do I have a feeling that I'm not going to like what you're about to suggest?” 

Deckard bent down to put his shoes on. The part of his brain the military had honed to perfection and which he was never able to turn off entirely pointed out to him how incredibly vulnerable a position this was, his hands busy, his head bent, his neck at such an unfortunate angle that Owen could have broken it easily. He wondered if that thought occurred to other people when they were around his brother, or when they were around him. It probably didn't. It most certainly should.

“Because you won't,” Owen said, and Deckard could hear him grin. “And you'll argue with me, and then I will convince you that I'm right, and in the end we'll do it my way, because I know better than you and also because you don't actually enjoy dressing up as a security guard or a waiter.”

Deckard made a non-committal sound, but he didn't bother to disagree. Whatever other faults his brother had, his knack for planning was beyond doubt.

“It's simple, really,” Owen said and paused for effect like some daft kid doing a magic trick. “The invitation is plus one.” 

He _definitely_ sounded too fucking pleased with himself. Deckard straightened up and stared at him.

“Nobody is going to believe we're a couple,” he said, because this had to be one of the stupidest ideas Owen had ever had the misfortune of sharing with him. And that included the time he'd admitted to Deckard that he had tried to blackmail his physics teacher over some bollocks for no other reason than that he'd thought it'd be funny, and could Deckard please make the whole thing go away? (Deckard had, his own kind of magic disappearing trick, and it had only cost the poor sod two teeth.)

“We don't exactly look like brothers,” Owen said. He wasn't wrong about that – even if one knew to look for similarities, they were few and far between. Deckard looked more like their parents, Owen had got his dark hair and good looks from a grandfather they both only knew from old family pictures.

“That's not the point. I'm not saying that people will think we're brothers, just that nobody will think we're a couple.” He imagined calling Owen “sweetheart” and almost choked just thinking the word.

Then he imagined putting his hand on his brother's back or his arm in public, and he could all too easily imagine the way Owen would lean in, whisper some bullshit into his ear, but with the sweetest smile on his lips. Hell, he'd even let his lips touch Deckard's temple just to mess with him. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that Owen would go out of his way to make sure they'd look like a couple, and enjoy it while he was at it.

“You wear 5000-pound-suits, Deckard, I don't think you'll have trouble seeming gay enough.” Owen grinned downright giddily. Deckard bit back a reminder that just about every rich twat at that event would be wearing bespoke suits because past a certain income you could buy taste if you only bothered to try. Owen was right, it was rarely a good idea to argue with him; sooner or later he'd talk his way around in enough circles that Deckard gave in just because he was tired of listening to him.

So instead of arguing, he met Owen's eyes – darker than his own, sly even as he affected a mock innocent look – and narrowed his own.

“Don't think I don't know what you're doing, little brother,” he said. There were things – very few things – they didn't talk about, but there were enough different ways of not talking about them. What had happened when Owen had been a teenager and the most obnoxiously stubborn, insistent brat Deckard had ever met, was at the very top of that list. Actually it was, along with those very rare times that same stubbornness had led to similar results in the following years, just about the only item on that list.

“Oh, I know you know what I'm doing,” Owen replied. He was still sprawled out in his armchair like an overgrown cat. Deckard's gaze followed the long lines of his legs in dark blue jeans, his thighs thick with muscle, the belt over his tucked-in henley emphasising his slim waist. He'd always been much narrower than Deckard, even as he'd put on quite a bit of muscle thanks to his army training. Deckard hadn't touched Owen in long enough that he idly wondered what his hands would look like on those thighs now, if he could still lift him up as easily as when Owen had been fifteen, or nineteen, or twenty-one. 

Owen watched Deckard watch him, and uncurled from his seat.

“You're my brother.” He smiled, a smile that would have managed to pass for tender from anyone else, but then his little brother was nothing like anyone else in the world. “And besides, it wouldn't be half as much fun if you didn't know what I was doing.”

* * *

The job wasn't the kind they usually worked. Infiltrating a high society gala hosted by a scrupulously paranoid billionaire with connections everywhere in order to steal some files from his personal servers was not what either of them had been trained for, but Owen had decided not to entrust anyone else with a job that important to his own operations. They were both soldiers, not spies, but over the years they had operated in enough cities that they'd learnt more than a few skills a normal soldier would never need. The gala was large enough that the fact that nobody knew them personally went unnoticed, their cover stories were airtight, and they both had their own ways of blending in. Owen had learnt how to rub shoulders with people who were much richer and posher than him when he'd been at Oxford, and while Deckard's accent earned him more than a few surprised looks, he knew enough about good wine and stylish suits and expensive cars that nobody doubted that he was a successful self-made businessman who liked to spend his money on the finer things in life.

And they were both professional enough not to flinch when the other put an unexpected hand on their waist or their arm, something Owen seemed to relish far more than he should. Deckard just about managed not to pull away when Owen appeared by his side out of nowhere and took his fucking hand.

“I'm going to have to steal Tom from you for a moment,” he said with a quick smile to the lobbyist that had been talking Deckard's ear off about golf, and Deckard could almost have been grateful for that if not for the irritating way Owen's fingers curled around his as he led him away.

“I might have found a way for us to get into the private wing,” he whispered, leaning in closer than was probably entirely necessary, but they'd both agreed to tread with extreme caution. Security guards manned every corner and probably listened to the guests' conversations as much as they looked out for trouble, and Deckard had already spotted half a dozen apparent 'guests' who in all likelihood had the exact same job. They stopped in as secluded a corner of the garden as they could find, so close their foreheads almost brushed – as far as anyone could tell a happy couple sharing a private moment – while Owen explained what he'd learnt from a conveniently drunk IT employee.

“We'll have to wait until morning, though,” Owen concluded, and Deckard had to bite back a sigh. He'd hoped they'd be done and out of here in one night instead of having to attend all three days of this damn event. Owen was so close that Deckard felt his smile against his temple. He smelt of the expensive cologne Deckard had picked for him because Owen couldn't be bothered with the usual accoutrements of wealth – he preferred to invest his money in greater ventures, in more power, and in the kinds of cars that would win any race in the world if they were allowed on the track. He'd accompanied him to a tailor, too, to advise him while he had a few suits made. Owen had never liked suits, he'd already hated the tight collars of dress shirts and the feeling of ties around his neck when he'd still been in the army, but damn if he didn't look good in one. 

Deckard made an attempt to pull his hand out of Owen's grasp, but Owen didn't let go, and yanking his hand away might have attracted attention. After all, they were supposed to be quite smitten with each other, and they both knew better than to think there were ever no eyes on them. Owen's thumb rubbed teasingly over the ring on Deckard's finger.

“I still can't believe you agreed to dear Thomas and Craig being married,” Owen said with a chuckle. His thumb had moved to the centre of Deckard's palm, and he'd never thought of his hands as particularly sensitive before.

“It does look more respectable,” Deckard said and bit back a sneer. He kept his voice to a low whisper, nothing but a breath of air between them. “That and I don't think I could have kept a straight face if you'd referred to me as your _boyfriend_.”

Owen laughed, slightly louder than he usually would, and looked every bit as delighted as if Deckard had just paid him the sweetest compliment.

“I would have said partner, of course,” he said, but the look in his eyes was one Deckard knew far too well. His brother had a mischievous streak a mile wide, and for all his professionalism his sense of self-preservation always seemed seriously hampered by Deckard's presence and the knowledge that his brother would gladly kill every single person in a two-mile-radius if things went south. 

“Yeah, I don't fucking trust you,” Deckard said, and because he was tired of being at the receiving end of Owen's games, he leant in suddenly and pressed a rough kiss to his lips. He didn't linger for long enough to let Owen reciprocate, and pulled away so quickly that his stubble rasped unpleasantly over Owen's skin. His brother looked so satisfyingly surprised that Deckard had to put a hand on his cheek to shield his expression from prying eyes. 

He hadn't touched his brother like this in more than fifteen years, but it still felt eerily familiar, in a way that all those pointed touches to keep up their charade so far hadn't. Most of the times that he'd touched Owen's cheeks like this, his brother had still been too young to have more than a little stubble on them. Owen's eyes were on his, for once taken aback rather than calm and certain, and Deckard liked it more than he probably should. He wondered if this, too, was only pretence. But Owen didn't need to pretend with him, had never bothered to be anything but aggressively honest about what they were to each other. Nor, for that matter, had Deckard ever denied it, he'd simply tried to keep enough distance between them to maintain at least a semblance of independence from his brother's obsessions.

Deckard's thumb slid down until it brushed over the corner of Owen's mouth, the lips his own mouth hadn't touched for long enough to feel how soft they were, the bit of reddened skin Deckard's stubble had rasped over. Owen's eyes never left his when he kissed his thumb, chased it for another kiss when Deckard began to pull back.

“Let's shake some more hands and drink some more champagne, hm?” Deckard said when he'd managed to pry both his hands loose. His mouth felt dry, but they could only get what they came here for if nobody suspected them of anything, so some more mingling was in order. Even if the touch of Owen's hand on his arm had gone from merely irritating to downright distracting.

* * *

By the time they had cased the entire compound to their satisfaction and decided to turn in for the night, it was almost one in the morning. Their mark had all his guests stay in the nearby hotel he owned, something that was meant as a gesture of generosity, no doubt, but barely disguised the fact that he liked to keep an eye on everyone. Deckard had already glimpsed two fairly well hidden cameras in their suite without even looking for them, and he had no doubt that there were more. They'd managed to talk through their plan for the morning on a slow walk from the gala to the hotel with a detour by the river, Deckard's arm wrapped around Owen's waist because it made it easier to keep him close that way, close enough that they didn't need to do more than whisper to hear each other. To call that uncomfortable would have been an understatement – they hadn't touched each other that casually since Owen had been a kid and Deckard had slung a protective arm around his shoulders every now and then.

Deckard was sitting on the large double bed in their bedroom, his tie, jacket and shoes discarded, and played with his cuff links. Owen had disappeared into the bathroom once they'd got back, and Deckard supposed that his brother was as reluctant to get undressed in front of the cameras as he was. It wasn't a false sense of modesty – that rarely survived even the army's basic training – but rather the fact that they both had far too many scars for two businessmen who'd made their fortune in offices and skyscrapers. He wasn't sure if the bathroom was bugged as well, but at least they could work around cameras in there if they turned the shower hot enough to steam up the room.

But he didn't hear the shower, and when Owen joined him in the bedroom, he was still mostly dressed: barefoot, the sleeves of his burgundy dress shirt rolled up, enough buttons opened to bare half his chest. He looked more like himself this way, without the jacket and the tie and the slightly vapid smile he'd donned while playing the smitten husband. He looked much better, with that sharper look in his eyes and the way the tailored shirt clung to his stomach and sides, without the jacket hiding his slim hips. 

Owen caught him looking – of course he did, Deckard had never been good at hiding that, he'd just taken to punching Owen for remarking on it – and there was a hint of a prowl in his gait when he walked over to the bed.

“Aren't you tired?” Deckard asked, affecting a casual, relaxed tone even as he felt his spine going rigid. He trusted Owen with his life, but he didn't trust him with a whole lot of other things.

“Can't say I am, _Tom_ ,” Owen said and smiled what was probably supposed to be a fond smile. Deckard had just about managed to talk him out of ridiculous pet names, and even that only because Owen himself would have had to laugh too much about those.

He realised what Owen was about to do moments before he did it, but he was also aware of the camera that covered almost the entirety of the bedroom, and most definitely the bed itself, and punching Owen was for once not an option. So he resigned himself to Owen sliding onto his lap like a cat picking its favourite spot, his thighs pressing against Deckard's sides, his arms wrapping around his neck in something that was far, far too gentle for either of them. Deckard put one hand on Owen's side, and the other on his neck, because he had to put them somewhere.

“Definitely not too tired for this,” Owen added more softly, as if they did this every night, as if there was nothing to it when he kissed him. He was uncharacteristically careful about it, and Deckard hated that almost more than he hated not being able to push him off and risk their cover. If he was going to do this, if he was going to let Owen trick him into doing this, he wanted his brother, not whoever he was pretending to be. 

He let Owen have the hint of a warning in the slight tightening of his fingers on Owen's throat before he bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw a startled groan from his brother's lips. Maybe he should have tried at least to talk his way out of this, but Owen made it so very easy just to go along with what he wanted. He kissed him like he'd been starved for it since the last time it had happened, like he'd spent the last fifteen years waiting for this. Owen bit him as hard as Deckard did, his teeth painfully sharp, and he only got more aggressive about it when Deckard tightened his grip on his brother's throat again.

Owen kissed him for long enough that he found himself every bit as breathless, his hands untucking Deckard's shirt, but even now he was careful enough not to open it or take it off him, just slipped his hands underneath the sleek fabric to dig his fingers into Deckard's sides. They'd fought each other over the years more often than they'd fucked, irritation and want and that ever-present certainty that they could never turn their backs on each other boiling over into pure rage until they took each other apart in an army base or a hotel room or a safehouse, and then patched each other up again in silence before one of them left.

This was nothing like that, both of them too aware that they were being watched to hurt each other, but the way Owen held on to him was still rough and demanding, and it was those years of fighting that allowed him to flip them over, rolling off Deckard's lap and onto his back and pulling his brother down on top of him. They both groaned at the impact, shifted and squirmed around to get even halfway comfortable, both of them already painfully hard in their slacks.

Deckard only stopped kissing him for long enough to meet Owen's eyes, to watch the smirk spread over his features when his right hand found its way to the back of Deckard's neck. There was no hair to grab, so he dug his fingers hard into his flesh instead, his grip close to bruising. 

“What?” Deckard asked quietly, and Owen raised his other hand to his face to brush his thumb over Deckard's lips. 

“Oh, you know what,” Owen replied just as softly, still smiling that self-satisfied smile of his that made Deckard want to either beat him bloody or fuck him bloody, or one after the other. He wasn't going to get away with either of those options right now, no matter how little Owen would probably object to them on general principle. Instead he only tensed up more under Owen's hard grip, until he stopped fighting back and let Owen push him down. 

He slipped his hands underneath Owen's shirt on the way, pushed it up just far enough that the burn scars on his side and chest remained covered. He only got around to brushing his lips briefly over the bared skin before Owen pushed him further down and sighed softly when Deckard's cheek brushed over his cock. So he teased him, because he could and Owen couldn't do much about it, mouthed at his cock through the soft fabric of his perfectly tailored suit trousers, dug his thumbs into Owen's hips just where he knew it'd make him moan. Fifteen years since he'd bruised him right there while fucking him, and Owen's hips still jerked up impatiently.

“Fucking tease,” he gasped, like this whole situation wasn't his own fault. Deckard kept holding him down, took his time to work open button and zipper and pull his clothes down just far enough to get to Owen's cock. There were scars on his thighs, too, some of them from London, some of them much older, and none looked like the kind a civilian would have. His unscarred skin looked almost too pale against the dark fabric, or maybe that was just the stark lighting of the room. 

Every time they'd done this in the past, they had been so concerned with secrecy – in their childhood bedroom back at home, when their father had still been alive and guaranteed to give Deckard the beating of a lifetime if he'd found out, not so much because he would have been concerned for Owen's welfare, but simply because he wouldn't have stood for having a son that fucked up. In Owen's dorm room when his room-mate had known his brother was visiting and the last thing either of them wanted was for him to find Owen on his knees with his lips wrapped around his big brother's cock. Later in the army when they didn't need their superiors to have even more dirt on them than they already did. They'd never let anyone see them like this, or even suspect that they shared far more than other people thought brothers should share. The thought of being watched now made the hair on the back of Deckard's neck stand up, but Owen seemed hardly bothered.

He was too professional to give himself away by looking in the direction of the camera, but the expression in his eyes said clearly that he knew he had Deckard cornered, and his cock was no less hard for the knowledge that someone had eyes on them. His hand slid from the back of Deckard's neck to his throat, thumb pressing almost painfully into it while he slid it up from the hollow between his collarbones up to his chin, forcing it up so Deckard would meet his eyes again. Not for the first time Deckard wondered if Owen had planned this from the start, if he'd spent all of their preparations for this mission thinking about this specific moment when he'd have Deckard right where he wanted him. Where he'd never had him before. His little brother had always shown admirable dedication to getting his wishes.

Deckard rubbed his cheek against Owen's cock, savoured the whimper that left Owen's lips as the stubble caught on sensitive skin. Owen only let him tease him for so long, though, his free hand taking his cock to guide it towards Deckard's lips. Deckard had half a mind to make Owen force him, force his mouth open with his thumb and keep it right there between Deckard's teeth while he fucked his throat, but he supposed that wouldn't have gone well with their cover.

It was almost too easy to go along with how little choice their current situation left him with, if he didn't want to start an argument with his 'partner', and when Owen nudged his lips again with the head of his cock Deckard took it into his mouth with only the hint of a glare up at him. He could count the times he'd done this before on one hand and he suspected Owen knew as much, but it didn't stop him from digging his fingers into Deckard's neck again to keep him in place and fucking up into his mouth. He would have bitten anyone else's dick off for that, and fuck the mission and the circumstances, but instead he held on to Owen's hips and swallowed around his cock. He'd done worse things for Owen. He'd ended up enjoying most of them.

Owen wasn't bothering to stay quiet – he'd always had to when they'd done this in the past, biting his forearm or a pillow, and one time he'd forgotten and Deckard had had to put his hand on his brother's mouth to muffle his moans. Now he was all but putting on a show, gasping for breath, moaning loudly, and fortunately still enough in possession of his faculties to stick to gasping “fuck” rather than Deckard's name. Every time he made Deckard choke, he only clung to him more tightly, and his thigh muscles tensed under Deckard's hands whenever Deckard tightened his grip on them. Owen didn't even let him pull back when he came, his moans mingling with breathless laughter when Deckard choked and coughed.

The taste was bitter in his mouth, in the back of his throat, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand because his first urge was to slap Owen so hard across the face that his cheek would be red the next day. Owen gave him a languid, satisfied smile.

“I got carried away, sorry,” he said in the sweetest fucking voice, and if Deckard had still hesitated about how he was going to pay him back for this, that would have made up his mind.

“You know I don't mind,” and if he didn't manage to sound quite as friendly as Owen did, he had no doubt that his smug smile rivalled his brother's for once. Owen's trousers were somewhat in the way when Deckard flipped him onto his side and pressed against his back, his nose filled with the smell of Owen's sweat and cologne when he pressed his face against the back of his brother's neck. Despite Owen's best attempts to make him swallow, there was still more than enough come smeared over Owen's cock and stomach, enough at least for Deckard to slick himself up a little bit. It wouldn't make much of a difference, he supposed, but Owen had himself to blame for that. He felt so very tense when he pressed back against Deckard, his back muscles hard, his arse taut when he shifted to spread his legs as far as the bothersome fabric of his suit allowed.

He tensed up even more when Deckard rubbed the head of his cock against his hole, when he placed a gentle kiss on Owen's neck that only served to mask his grin from the camera. He knew Owen was too careful to let any other man fuck him raw, he doubted Owen would even want to deal with that kind of mess. The one time Deckard had done him like this, he'd used a condom out of sheer habit, but _Tom_ wouldn't need one for his dearest husband any more than Deckard was planning on using one to fuck his brother.

Owen turned his head to look at him, reaching back with one hand to cup Deckard's cheek and pull him into a somewhat awkward kiss. His lips moved against Deckard's in the quietest whisper when he said, “You fucking bastard.”

It sounded almost fond for Owen's standards, and he kept kissing Deckard, harder once Deckard's hand reached around his neck to steady it His lips muffled Owen's pained groans when he started pushing into him, and he only hoped that whoever was watching them would mistake the way Owen dug his fingers into Deckard's skin as passion rather than pain. He wasn't rough or fast about it, no, he took his time to draw this out for as long as he could, making Owen feel every inch as he pushed him open, savouring every breathless whimper against his lips, every racing heartbeat he could feel in Owen's throat. If they'd been alone – properly alone – he would have wanted to feel more of his brother's skin, but as it was he let himself enjoy the slide of fabric against fabric, the way Owen's movements were impeded by the fabric trapped around his knees. 

He fucked him so slowly that Owen almost ended up begging against his lips, following up his demands that Deckard get a fucking move on with a “please” rather than a threat to punch him in the kidney as soon as he got a chance because someone was in all likelihood listening as well as watching. His squirming only made him tighten more around Deckard's cock, made him every bit as tight as that very first time they'd done this, when Owen had threatened he'd let someone else fuck him if Deckard didn't do it. He made it last for so long that by the end he'd all but forgotten about anyone watching them, about anything but Owen's lips huffing desperate moans against his lips, Owen's hands clinging to whatever parts of him they could reach. It was Owen's throat he clamped down on so hard that a soft keen left his brother's mouth, but he almost forgot to breathe himself for a few seconds when he came.

Owen's first reaction once Deckard had pulled out of him was to roll over to the other end of the bed and turn off the damn light, granting them at least a small sliver of privacy in the darkness when he sank back down onto his back. For a minute they were both quiet, lying there and trying to catch their breath, before Owen climbed over Deckard to get out of bed – Deckard doubted that the knee in his stomach was entirely an accident – and headed to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later they'd both cleaned up, put on more comfortable clothes, and stretched out on the side of the bed where the sheets weren't stained with sweat and come. There was only a brief moment of hesitation before Owen turned his back towards Deckard and pulled him close, and even after all this time, there was nothing unfamiliar about that. They'd spent half their childhood sleeping like that, because Owen had hated his bed, or he'd been cold, or most of the time he hadn't even bothered to come up with an excuse. The only difference was that Owen was taller than him these days and rather than burying his face in his brother's hair, Deckard pressed it against his neck.

The shirt Owen was wearing was too tight and a little too short, as Deckard realised when he slipped his hand underneath it. His fingers twitched, but he refrained from commenting on it. They had work to do in the morning, and he was going to keep whatever he had to say to his brother in mind for when they were _alone_.

* * *

Acquiring what they needed turned out not quite _easy_ , but less hard than expected – once they had figured out where exactly they needed to go and what the guards' routines were, well, the army had trained Deckard to be all but invisible when he wanted to be, and having a partner on the lookout – especially one he could actually trust to watch his back – was a luxury he rarely enjoyed. He was in and out of the server room faster than expected, and when a guard came across them in the wrong part of the building a bit later, he didn't ask too many questions after one look at Owen's loosened tie and Deckard's hand on his arse.

They left the country separately, Owen with the information in his pocket, Deckard with half a mind not to work with his brother again. They'd agreed to meet up on one of those pretty Caribbean islands that were only inhabited by tourists, criminals, and rich pensioners, and Deckard spent a relaxed two days sipping cocktails and swimming in ridiculously blue water while Owen used the files he'd stolen for the rebuilding of his criminal empire. Sometimes Deckard asked questions, about the weapons smuggling, the cartel connections, the cops and agents he had in his pockets. Most of the time he was happier not knowing just what his brother was up to – Owen could keep playing gangster if that was what he wanted, but if he needed help, he would ask. If there was nothing else Owen had learnt from the disaster in London, it was that. And no matter how much Deckard like to complain about him at times, they both knew he'd never turn his back on Owen if his brother needed him.

He half considered leaving again before Owen showed up – Owen knew how to contact him in emergencies, and there were a handful of well-paid jobs Deckard could take tomorrow if he felt like a straightforward challenge in his life, instead of running mental circles around his brother. He could have left, and they could have gone back to not talking about any of this. Deckard's gaze idly followed two young tourists walking past him on the beach, tanned muscles glistening with ocean water in the sunlight, but his mind stayed on Owen, Owen's hand on the back of his neck, Owen's thighs twitching under his fingers.

He considered it more than once on those first two days, but he was still sprawled out on a beach chair in the afternoon of the third day when Owen walked towards him, barefoot, in off-white linen slacks and a white polo shirt that Deckard was almost entirely sure was his because it clung to Owen's frame in all the wrong places.

When he sat down on the edge of the chair and gave Deckard an amused look over the rim of his sunglasses, Deckard caught a whiff of that same cologne he'd bought for him. It wasn't quite the same as when he'd woken up and still smelt his come on Owen's skin, but it sent the same thrill down his spine.

Neither of them said anything; Deckard just raised a questioning eyebrow when Owen splayed his hand over Deckard's abs, his hand pleasantly cool despite the heat. Owen shrugged, took the sunglasses off with a flick of his hand and leant in to kiss Deckard. He didn't bother with slow and careful this time, it was a hungry, greedy kiss that was barely fit for a public place, especially with Owen's hand skirting dangerously close to the waistband of Deckard's shorts. Deckard quickly grabbed his wrist before Owen could get any further ideas, but the moan that got him didn't make it any easier to try and keep himself from getting hard.

They were on the kind of beach where nobody really cared what anyone else did, but even so Deckard caught a few furtive stares aimed in their direction when he finally broke the kiss. Some of them disapproving, just as many of them interested and envious. He wondered if it was him they wanted to fuck or his brother, or maybe both of them together. He wondered if they'd want to fuck them more or less if they _knew_ they were looking at two brothers.

Owen caught the eye of a handsome middle-aged man who was looking at them rather disapprovingly and chuckled when the man quickly hurried off. He stretched out at Deckard's side and pressed closely against him, his head on Deckard's shoulder.

“You're getting off on this, aren't you?” Deckard asked, because that could be the only bloody reason for this, when they'd already burnt every piece of evidence that Craig and Tom and their very happy, conventional marriage had ever existed – he'd even made sure to delete the video of their night at the hotel when he'd broken into the server room.

“And you aren't?” Owen's fingers were retracing a scar on Deckard's hip, gently at first, then scratching roughly over the soft skin right next to it. “I know you don't like people hitting on me any more than I like anyone else getting their hands on you.”

“Usually it's me getting my hands on them,” Deckard corrected. He rarely ever let the men he slept with touch him much – not a matter of principle, he'd simply always hated the feeling, unless the hands touching him were Owen's. Rough and possessive and ridiculously blatant right now.

“You think I like that any better?” Owen sounded almost sullen for a second, shifted against him until Deckard wrapped his arm around his brother's waist simply because it was the only way for them to fit on this damn sunlounger together.

“Tell me you actually needed those files I got out of that room,” Deckard said after a few minutes of silence, nothing but Owen's lips on his shoulder, Owen's fingers on his stomach, and the occasional passer-by's quick glances at them.

Owen actually looked surprised at the question, so Deckard shrugged. “I wouldn't put it past you to stage that whole nonsense just to get what you wanted from me.”

This time Owen laughed, warm breath puffing over the side of Deckard's face. He smelt of freshly brewed coffee, had tasted that way, too. 

“I can't say I wouldn't have done that if I'd thought of it,” Owen admitted after thinking about it for a moment, “but honestly the idea only occurred to me later.”

Deckard craned his neck so he could look at Owen, at the smirk clinging to the corners of his mouth, the mirth in his dark eyes. 

“I have no idea if I believe you,” he said eventually. Owen had been born a terrific liar, or maybe Deckard had just never bothered to figure out when he was telling the truth and when he wasn't. Most of the time it didn't matter much. There were no lies Owen could tell him that would ever change anything between then, so who knew if he even bothered?

As if he'd read his mind, Owen shrugged and patted his chest.

“Hardly matters, does it?” he asked. Deckard ran his fingers through the short hair at the back of Owen's neck, scratched it lightly and felt his neck muscles relax under his touch. His brother was a walking headache, but he was still rather glad he hadn't left the island before Owen had arrived. There was more than a handful of things he needed to do once they were alone, and for once he wasn't sure punching Owen in the face was on top of that list.


End file.
